Son of Ben Ali brought some roasting ears before the sun came out. They
were very fine—sweet and juicy. Gooft!” The White Pig smacked his mouth
and blinked his eyes as if to show how he had enjoyed the feast. Buster
John and Sweetest Susan seated themselves near Drusilla.
“The first time I saw the Son of Ben Ali,” said the White Pig, “I was
just big enough to hide in the grass and run about without squealing
for my mammy. I used to slip out of the swamp and run into the woods
after the acorns. The red squirrel was my friend then, and his
great-grand-children are my friends now. He used to climb the big turkey
oak, and run about on the limbs pretending to be playing, but all the
time he would be shaking down the sweet little acorns. He barked at
me and I grunted at him, and we used to have a very nice time all by
ourselves.
“One day, while I was out in the open woods cracking acorns, I heard some
one call, ‘Run here little Pig! run quick!’ I didn’t have any better
sense than to do as I was told, so I ran as hard as I could toward the
call. Then I heard a zooning sound in the air, a loud squall, and a noise
as of a tree falling. I ran right into the hands of a big man. I was
terribly frightened, and I suppose I must have squealed as loud as I
could. The big man was the Son of Ben Ali, and he hushed me up by telling
me that he called me because a wildcat had been watching me from the
lowest limb of the turkey oak.
“Humph—ooft!” grunted the White Pig, “the only reason he didn’t get me
was because the Son of Ben Ali struck him with a stone just as he started
to jump. The wildcat fell out of the tree dead. His skull was shivered.
You have never seen the Son of Ben Ali throw a stone? Well that is
between you and him. I have seen him.
“He killed the wildcat that my mammy had often told me about, and after
that I came to know the Son of Ben Ali well. Whenever I could find him,
night or day, I trotted around with him, and that is how it happened that
when my brothers and sisters were shot by men and caught by dogs I was
not with them to be shot or caught. I was trotting about with the Son of
Ben Ali.
“It was the same thing day after day and night after night, the Son of
Ben Ali coming and going, and I trotting at his heels or running in the
bushes close by. One day, when the sun had gone down, we were slipping
along behind the orchard here. The Son of Ben Ali said he was going to
see the Little Master, and I was to wait for him. I heard a dog bark, and
this made me stop. And then, while I was listening, a man came upon us—a
white man. He seemed to rise out of a dark place in the road. I dodged
into a fence corner before he saw me, and stood there, listening.
“‘Who are you?’ said the Son of Ben Ali. His voice shook a little.
“‘That’s what the owl said,’ answered the white man. This tickled me so
that I grunted before I knew it. The white man laughed, too, and said he
was the Teacher of the young people at the big house. Gooft! a Teacher!
There was once a schoolhouse—they called it that, but it was nothing in
the world but a log cabin—in the woods over yonder. Every day the Teacher
would come and pound and pummel the boys, and every day the boys would go
out and stone the cows and hogs. They killed a blood cousin of mine.
“So I said to myself, Gooft! if this Teacher is teaching the Little
Master to do these things, I will keep out of the Little Master’s way.
[Illustration: A WILD CAT WAS WATCHING ME]
“Humph! The Son of Ben Ali said to this Teacher: ‘You ought to know me.
You saw me in the speculator’s train, and you saw me sold from the block.’
“The Teacher placed his hand on the Son of Ben Ali’s shoulder and
replied: ‘I came from far away, and there the people are thinking about
you and praying for you. Bear that in mind—thinking about you, and
praying for you every day and every night. Hundreds, thousands, tens of
thousands—all thinking about you and praying for you.’
“Gooft—ooft! This Teacher talked as the man talks in the little house on
the creek road where the people go when the bell rings—the little house
with the high wooden chimney, where the bell is.”
“It is a church,” said Buster John.
“Humph! It may be a church for all I know. I have stood in the woods and
heard the man talk to the people, and the Teacher talked just like him. I
don’t know what else the Teacher said to the Son of Ben Ali, nor what the
Son of Ben Ali said to him, but that night, after the Son of Ben Ali had
seen the Little Master, and when we were on our way back to the woods,
we met the Teacher again. He had been to another plantation, and told the
negroes there how the people in his country were thinking about them and
praying for them.
“‘You go too far from home,’ said the Son of Ben Ali. ‘Many a negro where
you’ve been to-night will tell what you have said, in hopes of getting an
extra rasher of meat.’
“Ooft—gooft!” grunted the White Pig; “and hog meat at that. But the
Teacher said that he would trust them.
“‘The best good-night I can give you,’ said the Son of Ben Ali, ‘is not
to trust them too much or too far.’
“Ooft—oof! Now you might wonder how I could remember such little things.
But little things have a way of growing, and this was one of the little
things that grew. Humph! It grew like a pumpkin vine. One thing followed
another like sheep jumping over a rail on the ground. The last sheep to
go over jumps higher than a man’s head. So with these things I am telling
you of. They grew, and they jumped.
“When we met the Teacher, the grass was green, but it was not long
before the winds began to blow keen and cold, and then the grass
shriveled and the leaves on the trees began to fall. As for me, I could
lie in the sedge and keep warm, or I could make me a bed of leaves on the
windward side of the fence and never know that the weather was cold. With
the Son of Ben Ali, it was different. Not having been born free to the
woods and the weather—to the four winds and the four seasons—humph!—he
must have a fire. He must have a fire that could be felt and not be seen.
So he dug him a hole in the ground, a trench he called it, and in this he
made his fire, and he seemed to be very fond of it when the weather was
damp and cold.
“One night when I was returning from the yam patch to the top of the
hill, I heard horses going along the road. I knew the horses had riders,
for I could hear no wheels. The fog was heavy and thick, and so I went
close to the road to see and hear what I could. I slipped through the wet
grass and listened. Suddenly one of the riders pulled up his horse and
cried out:—
“‘Look! look on the hill yonder!’
“I turned to see what it was, and it was terrible enough to scare
anybody. On the clouds above the hill was the shadow of a man as big as
a fodder stack, and as high as the tallest pine. Even the horses saw it
and snorted with fear. The shadow raised its arms above its head and then
let them drop quickly. I knew at once that it was the shadow of the Son
of Ben Ali, but even then I had a quaking fear. Suddenly I heard another
voice call out:—
“‘Whoever you are, come and help a man in trouble.’
“The Son of Ben Ali heard it, too, for the cry of the man for help had
hardly died away before the shadow on the clouds disappeared as if it
had been wiped out. I knew that the voice that had called to the shadow
was the voice of the Teacher, the man who had told the Son of Ben Ali
that thousands and tens of thousands were praying for him. And I wondered
whether the thousands and the tens of thousands were praying for the
Teacher, now that he seemed to be in trouble.
“The Teacher called again, and then I heard the voice of old Grizzly’s
son George tell the man to hush or he would blow his brains out.
[Illustration: LOOK ON THE HILL YONDER]
“‘But I have done nothing to you, gentlemen,’ said the Teacher. ‘I have
not harmed you in the least. What have you seized me for, and where are
you taking me?’
“‘Hush, you sniveling wretch!’ said old Grizzly’s son George. ‘You’ve
been colloguing with the niggers, and telling them about freedom. You
want to raise an insurrection, and you’ll have to pay for it!’
“After that the Teacher said no more, and the patrol rode on. I could
see, dark as it was, that they had the Teacher riding behind Old
Grizzly’s son George. The Teacher was tied with a rope, and the rope was
fastened to Old Grizzly’s son. All this I saw, and I saw guns—gooft—the
things that burn and sting you from afar. It was well that my eyes
were fitted for the dark, otherwise the Son of Ben Ali would have been
riddled. But I ran and met him, and told him of the guns. He wanted to
slip among the horses, cut the ropes that bound the Teacher, and carry
him out of hearing among the bushes. But there were the guns!
“Then the Son of Ben Ali wanted me to run ahead, get in the road and rush
out at the horses when they came up, while he cut the ropes from the
Teacher. Gooft! But there were the guns! We heard the men talking, and
found that they were going to take the Teacher to a cross-roads store,
called Harmony, seven miles away, and there hang him.”
Sweetest Susan shuddered. Drusilla cried, “Well, suh!” Buster John pulled
up a big bunch of grass and threw it away from him. His face was red with
anger or excitement.
“Humph! Hang him to a limb!” grunted the White Pig. “Ooft! There was a
bridge a quarter of a mile ahead. It was long and narrow and low—just
wide enough for a wagon and not higher from the shallow creek than a
man’s head. Over this bridge the men had to go, and the Son of Ben Ali
wanted me to run ahead, get on the further end of the bridge, charge the
horses when they reached the middle, and then jump off and get under the
bridge before the men could make their guns talk. It was not to my taste.
If I had had to choose between charging the horses on that bridge and a
mess of ripe persimmons—humph—I think I would have taken a few of the
persimmons. But what could I do? Gooft! The Son of Ben Ali had his mind
made up.
“So I ran ahead, jumped over a low place in the fence, and reached the
bridge before the horses did. I heard them come on the other end of the
bridge, and I tried to get my bristles up, but—gooft—ooft—they wouldn’t
stay up. As the men came across I went to meet them, and when they came
within a few steps of me, I charged at them, making as much noise as I
could, crying:
“‘Gooft—ooft! Gooft!’
“It was all so sudden that the horses were terribly frightened. There
were five of them. One reared and I ran under his forelegs. Another shied
too far to one side, and went crashing through the railing into the
creek. One of the horses kicked me, and—gooft!—that made me mad. For the
first time my bristles rose. I rushed at them with open mouth. Another
crashed through the railing and went over. All this time I could see the
Son of Ben Ali at the heels of the horse that was carrying the Teacher
and old Grizzly’s son.
“But the horse was scared nearly to death. His rider couldn’t manage him.
He was wild. Before the Son of Ben Ali could cut the rope, the scared
horse had whirled and rushed off the bridge, and I went after him. The
Son of Ben Ali disappeared, and I went over the fence and rested in the
bushes. Presently the Son of Ben Ali came creeping to where I was. He was
wet with sweat and trembling all over.
“Neither the men nor the horses were hurt. Gooft! they came together and
sat on their horses within a few steps of where we lay. One said it was a
man seven feet high. Another said it was a wild varment as big as a lion.
Still another said it was Satan. Gooft—ooft! The Teacher said it was a
warning. Ooft! ‘The hand of the Lord is in it,’ he said.
“‘It will be a hard race, little Grunter—a hard race! It is three miles
to the big house, and from there eight miles to Harmony. It is to be a
hard race, little Grunter—a hard race. But it must be run.’ So said the
Son of Ben Ali.
“‘Am I to go, Son of Ben Ali?’ I said.
“‘As far as you may and as fast as you can, little Grunter.’
“Gooft! you have never seen the Son of Ben Ali throw a stone, and you
have never seen him run! We got in the big road where the ground was
firm. Gooft! I began to gallop, but I heard the Son of Ben Ali right at
my heels. I began to run, and—gooft—ooft!—I heard him closer at my heels.
The faster I went, the faster the Son of Ben Ali went. I was a pretty
swift runner and am to this day, but that night I could never get more
than twenty steps away from the Son of Ben Ali. Gooft! he was running to
save life, and I was running for fun. Once we passed a stray traveler—a
stray negro. He called out: ‘What are you trying to do, brother?
‘Ooft!—and the Son of Ben Ali called back: ‘Trying to catch little
Grunter, brother!’ Gooft—and the stranger cried: ‘I wish you mighty well,
my brother!’
“Gooft—ooft! It was a warm race and a long one. We were not going as fast
at the end as we were at the beginning. Ooft! but we were going. And
we went till we came to the horse lot, and then I stopped. I spoke to
the Son of Ben Ali and said that we were now as close to the hogpen as
I hoped ever to be, and so he cried out as he ran: ‘Good night, little
Grunter!’ I heard him go to the stable where the Black Stallion, the Son
of Abdallah, is kept. Then I heard the door thrown open, and the Son of
Abdallah came out with a scream and a snort, and that is all I know. The
rest the Black Stallion can tell you.
“Ooft—gooft! That is all. Say nothing to no one. I’ll sleep here a
little, and when the sun gets lower I’ll slip away to the swamp.”
“We are very much obliged to you,” said Sweetest Susan.
“Humph—umph! Humph—umph!” grunted the White Pig. “Nicely said—nicely
said! I’m over-paid.”
X.
THE BLACK STALLION’S STORY.
The children were anxious to hear the rest of the story at once, but they
were compelled to wait. The White Pig had told all he knew, and Aaron was
on the other side of the plantation. So Buster John and Sweetest Susan
amused themselves by wondering whether the Teacher was hanged or whether
he was rescued. As for Drusilla, she very plainly said that she didn’t
much care. It was all past and gone anyhow. Break a pumpkin, she said,
and nobody in the world can mend it, not even if people were to come and
cry over it.
But Buster John and Sweetest Susan thought it made all the difference
whether a man was hanged or saved. They talked about it a good deal, and
when they went to the house they asked their grandfather the name of the
man who had come from a far country to teach their Uncle Crotchet. The
old gentleman leaned back in his chair and looked at the youngsters. He
smiled a little, and then closed his eyes and seemed to be thinking. The
question had carried him back to the past.
“Have you forgotten his name, Grandfather?” asked Sweetest Susan, after a
while.
“Forgotten his name!” exclaimed the grandfather. “Oh, no! No, indeed! His
name was Hudspeth—Richard Hudspeth. I remember him as well as if he had
been here only yesterday. At bottom, he was a fine character. He came
here from Massachusetts, and he went back there.”
The grandfather paused and drummed gently on the arms of his easy chair.
Then—
“Yes; he went back there. He is a big man now. He was elected to Congress
some time ago. We have had some correspondence. He is a very able man. I
wonder if he remembers his adventures here?”
“He is a bitter abolitionist,” said the children’s father.
“He was always that,” said the grandfather. “But I shall always love him
on account of Little Crotchet. The two were devoted to each other.”
“Grandfather,” said Sweetest Susan, after a while, “what is a bitter
abolitionist? Isn’t that what papa said?” she asked, seeing her
grandfather laugh.
“My darling child, you wouldn’t know now if I were to tell you. Run along
with Drusilla. I’ll think it over, and tell you about it some other time.”
Sweetest Susan and Drusilla joined Buster John in the yard, and there
they discussed the matter, without coming to any conclusion. Buster John
knew that the abolitionists wanted to free the negro slaves, but that was
all.
That night they went to Aaron’s house and asked him whether the Teacher
had been hanged or rescued, but Aaron said he was too tired to sit up
and talk. He said he would be around the lot all day the next day, and
then they could go and see Timoleon, who could tell all about it. This
satisfied the children, and they went to bed happy in the expectation of
visiting the Black Stallion.
The children were up bright and early the next morning, which was
something unusual, for they were very fond of sleeping late. As soon as
Drusilla had eaten her breakfast—she waited on the children, at the
table, and was allowed to eat as soon as they had finished—all three went
hunting for Aaron. They found him right where they wanted to find him, in
the lot where Timoleon’s stable stood. So they went to him, and he lost
no time in opening the door of the stable.
The Black Stallion did not have fresh air and exercise every day, and so
he sprung through the open door and went galloping madly about the field,
sending forth a screaming challenge to the whole plantation. He galloped
about the field as far as the limits of the high fence would permit, and
paid no attention to either Aaron or the children.
“He has forgotten us,” said Sweetest Susan in some alarm.
Aaron laughed. “Folks forget,” said he, “but my brothers that run on four
legs never forget.”
When the Black Stallion had taken his exercise, he walked slowly back to
the stable, sometimes pausing to crop the grass or to hold his head high
in the air.
“Grandson of Abdallah,” said Aaron, “you have forgotten your friends.”
“I am the forgotten one, Son of Ben Ali,” replied Timoleon, “my feed is
chucked into the trough, the door is shut, and I am left to chew my cud.
Am I a cow, that I should be chewing my cud? Am I a hog, that I should be
fastened in a pen?”
“Whose fault, Grandson of Abdallah? You will have no one to feed you but
me, and I—well, what I have to do I must do. The grandchildren of the
White-haired Master are here.”
“I thought they had forgotten me, Son of Ben Ali. I am glad they are
here. But what of it? I go in my pen, and the door is closed; what
matters it to me whether they are here or yonder?”
“No, Grandson of Abdallah. In the pasture here the morning sun shines,
the grass is green, the air is cool. Here for a little while you may stay
with these grandchildren of the White-haired Master. Your stable is to be
cleaned.”
For answer, the Black Stallion sought out a soft place in the grass, held
his head close to the ground, walked in a small circle that constantly
grew smaller until his knees bent under him, and then he keeled over on
his side and began to wallow. This finished, he rose and began to graze
close to the children, apparently as gentle as any horse could be.
“Do you remember the night the White-haired Master rode you to Harmony?”
asked Aaron from inside the stable.
The Grandson of Abdallah raised his head and went to the stable door, his
mouth half full of grass. Some of the grass must have tickled his nose,
for he snorted twice in quick succession.
“Do I remember it, Son of Ben Ali? How could I forget it? It was a little
while before the big race at Lexington. That was the night I learned how
to put my nose at a horse’s flank and run the breath out of him.”
“The children of the White-haired Master would like to hear of that,”
said Aaron.
“It was at night,” remarked the Black Stallion, threshing at a perverse
fly with his tail. “What time, I know not, but I had been dozing, and
just before that I had heard the chickens crow. There was no moon. The
big white star was glittering where the sun rises, and there was frost
in the air. Suddenly I heard some one tugging at my stable door and the
voice of the Son of Ben Ali calling.
“The door was barred, but he broke the bar. The stable was dark, but he
found the bridle, blanket, and saddle. He cried:—
“‘Steady, Son of Abdallah! There is work for us this night!’
“I bit at him in play, and took a piece of his coat off, but he made no
pause until saddle and bridle were on. Then he ran through the door,
crying ‘Come, Son of Abdallah! Come! There is work for us to-night!
Steady! You will have play enough before the night is over.’
“I liked nothing better than that, so I sprang through the door, and went
galloping after the Son of Ben Ali. He ran to the house, and there I saw
the Gray Mare, my sister, standing. She was bridled, but the saddle was
missing.
“‘Stand here!’ said the Son of Ben Ali. He placed his hand on the yard
fence and sprang over, though the gate was near. He ran to the big tree
near the corner of the house, and began to walk upward. This was new to
me, so I started back in some surprise. But the Son of Ben Ali called to
me to be quiet, and in a minute he had disappeared in the little window
that juts from the roof.
“Then I heard the voice of the Little Master crying ‘Take me down stairs!’
“In a little while the Son of Ben Ali came down the tree and stood at the
door, which was presently opened by the White-haired Master. His speech
was short and quick:—
“‘Where are the horses?’
“‘Here, Master,’ said the Son of Ben Ali, who came running toward me.
‘Mount here, Master.’
“‘Show me the way!’ said the White-haired Master.
“The Son of Ben Ali flung himself on the Gray Mare, my sister. The
gates were all open, and we went through them in a hurry. I felt the
White-haired Master settle himself in the saddle and try the stirrups.
Then his knees pressed a little closer to the saddle, and I thought,
‘Here is a rider—a little heavy, but more helpful than a lighter man who
has never learned to fit himself to the curve of the saddle, and to move
as the horse moves.’ He reached his right arm forward to feel of the play
of my shoulders, and gave me a gentle pat by way of praise.
“The Gray Mare, my sister, was trained for racing, while I was raw and
untried, waiting for my turn, that came afterward, and she tripped along
ahead of me as lightly as a rabbit that has just been frightened from its
bed.
“We cleared the gates and the narrow lane, and presently struck into the
big road.
“‘Are we going to Harmony?’ asked the White-haired Master.
“‘Yes, Master.’
“‘We shall have to ride, then.’
“At that the Gray Mare, my sister, seemed to glide away from me. The
Son of Ben Ali had slapped her with his open hand. I went after her
with a little rush that never moved the White-haired Master in his
saddle. I felt my blood tingling. Whatever the Gray Mare, my sister, was
doing, I knew I was going at only half speed, and I longed to show the
White-haired Master what I could do.
“I said as we galloped, ‘My sister, this night you will see which of us
has the swiftest feet.’ The answer she made was a loud snort, and again
she tried to glide away, but I kept my muzzle at the Son of Ben Ali’s
knee.
“‘Not now,’ said the Son of Ben Ali. ‘Wait! Wait till we cross the
bridge.’
“‘Are we riding or playing?’ asked the White-haired Master. Man, we’ll be
too late!’
“‘When we cross the bridge, we’ll go, Master,’ said the Son of Ben Ali.
“Yet the ground was firm and springy, and the road level. I was so
fretted that I bit at the Son of Ben Ali’s leg. ‘You won’t play when you
come to your journey’s end, Grandson of Abdallah,’ he said. I knew then
that we would go fast enough after awhile, and so I fell back a little
and settled down to a swift, steady gallop. My easy movements must have
pleased the White-haired Master, for he reached forward and gave me a
love-lick, saying, ‘Good horse!’
“So in a little while we came to the bridge, a small affair, but rickety.
On the other side the Son of Ben Ali leaned forward a little, saying,
‘Now, Master!’ The Gray Mare, my sister, leaped away from me with a
snort. I threw my head forward as the White-haired Master gave me the
length of the rein, and the Gray Mare, my sister, soon found that she
would not have the road to herself.
[Illustration: THE GRAY MARE LEAPED AWAY FROM ME]
“Within a quarter of a mile, I was running with my nose at her flank, and
I kept it there. I could have run past her, but I knew the White-haired
Master would give the word for that, and so I kept my place. Yet, I could
feel that the Gray Mare, my sister, was trying her best to get away from
me.